Destined to Repeat It: The Forgotten Years
by Bonehammer
Summary: They began when Harry Potter met himself beside a frozen pool in Gloster and ended when Harry Potter met himself in a suburban detached house in Surrey. A companion piece and prologue to my ongoing story, Destined to Repeat It.
1. Chapter 1

The Forgotten Years

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to the respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Rating:** M for violence, language, mature themes.

**A/N:** Because the FFNet format is less than ideal for this type of story, I have uploaded this chapter on my Livejournal (bonehammer) as well - please pay a visit and tell me which one you like best. Thanks for reading.

The hardest years, the darkest years, the roarin' years, the fallen years  
>These should not be forgotten years<br>The hardest years, the wildest years, the desperate and divided years  
>We will remember, these should not be forgotten years<p>

MIDNIGHT OIL, Forgotten Years

* * *

><p>Department of Mysteries – Memorandum<p>

Classification: Self-Whispered – Internal Circulation Only

The following is a transcription from a handwritten book found by wizard Dearg McDougal of Wolverhampton in a clearing of the woods near Cinderford. The book appeared worn, discoloured and partially burnt.

After reading the first pages, Mr Diggle saw it best to turn the book to the Cinderford Auror station for further enquiry; in turn, the Chief Auror handed it over to the Unspeakables. (Note: All parties involved so far were subjected to memory modification and are NOT to be enquired further)

After thorough examination of the book and the location where it was found, our Unspeakables narrowed the possibilities to a number of three. Namely, the manuscript could be:

1) an elaborate prank,

2) the product of a mind labouring under an intense delusion,

3) an accurate report of events that actually transpired.

The presence of residual magic of Dark nature in the clearing, and the finding of partial human remains, did not help clarify the matter further. Although it is certain that a ritual of some kind was perpetrated, no assumption can be made regarding its purpose or successfulness.

People mentioned in the book and whose identity could be ascertained were approached as discreetly as possible; no one has given a likely explanation so far.

In order to allow the specimen to be thoroughly examined, and with a mind to its state of preservation, the book has been transcribed completely, including parts that had been erased or marked for cancellation by the author. Shorthand, acronyms and abbreviations have been worked out as best as possible.

Anyone able to provide explanation please apply to Mr Knutworth, Unspeakable Office, Department of Mysteries, every other Wednesday afternoon.

(Please note: it might be necessary to modify your memory after giving evidence. We apologise in advance for any inconvenient it may cause).

* * *

><p><em>11th November<em>

_Reached the shack today at dawn, on the lookout ever since; no sign of activity inside. Elected not to contact Order, after last altercation – they still refuse to do what has to be done. The utter **morons.**_

_I am leaving now._

_Founders preserve me._

Scratched out, partly unreadable:_ (If anyone finds this book and cares for wizardkind, please leave █████████████Magical Brethren in the hall of the Ministry building at London. Your identity shall remain a secret.)_

_11th November (later)_

_**IT'S OVER. **_

_Air has never tasted sweeter before. I didnt have to do anything: he is __**finished**__. Found him is all. _Scratched out:_ (I only wish I could have)_

_Cave contained one Dementor in warded cage-like structure. Found P. in front of cage, obviously Kissed – hardly accidental. Body dehydrated, otherwise healthy. Conditions as to be expected – responsive to bodily stimuli (prodding / Stinging Hex), capable of executing simple verbal commands; otherwise catatonic: motionless, blank, etc. Wand polished and shut in carrying case confirms hypothesis of suicide. Appears that P. took his own soul in the end rather than answering the Wizengamot._

Scratched out:_ (It takes some courage to)_

_No messages / will found. Will inspect tomorrow w/ more light & rest - cant risk triggering a trap._

_Sleeping out in the woods b/c of Dementor. Havent met one in years, own defences pretty low._

_Havent contacted the Order yet._

_Not sure what to do._

Sketched drawing of a female head follows. Scratched out: _(You know I had to.)_

_13th November_

_Too busy to write yesterday. P.'s condition stable for now. Several interesting findings, among others a Portsieve & sealed memory vials in false bottom of cupboard. Ought to turn it over to the Order, but unable to. Spent last ten years trying to understand what passed through his mind – not easy to let go, not so soon. His victims deserve an explanation. _**I**_ deserve an explanation._

_Left Dementor in cage, wards around shack reinforced; side-Apparated w/ P.'s body to Spinner's End this morning. Hidden quarters behind library not vacant anymore. Spent rest of day setting up. _

_Will try tomorrow on a good night's sleep._

Sketched drawing of a Pensieve follows.

_15th November._

_Do not know what I saw. Vials do not seem to contain memories – not matching with anything that actually happened. Perhaps visions – P. possibly a Seer? No trace of Divination on his school records, & yet that would explain so many things._

The previous page has been torn from the book.

_16th November._

_Merlin's **bollocks. **_

Sketched drawing of the Astronomy Tower at the Hogwarts School, harshly scratched out.

_P.'s not visions; delusions. **He** is the only responsible for D.'s death. We have been nurturing a raving lunatic in our midst for seven years. We have stood by, taking no action, as he repeatedly stepped out of boundary. The Headmaster goaded P.'s ego and ultimately paid the price for his own leniency. All the destruction. All the sufferance that ensued. Were. For. **NOTHING**._

_This has to be denied, evidence destroyed, for our own sake. Better to second the old wives' tale that P.'s was to be the next Dark Lord._

Scratched out, partly unreadable:_ ('Se███s... Please')_

_I wouldnt. **I never**._

_17th November._

_Completed examination of 'memories'. More examples of events which never happened & never **could** have happened. Either delusions or fabrications, an alibi for **nothing**: P.'s true nature has been bitterly revealed in the destruction of our society spread over an entire continent. This pathetic attempt at a self-defense is known only to the two of us; soon to myself only._

_Side-Apparating back to the shack for the final arrangements._

* * *

><p>Dust rose around them as they Apparated into the desolate shack. The body he was holding stumbled and fell like an empty sack, dragging him down; he let go at once, but fell painfully on the floor nonetheless. Severus Snape swore horribly as he got up; he had mastered Side-Apparation a long time ago, but he was used to companions that would at least <em>try<em> and stand upright.

The other was still lying on the floor, in a contorted pose; he hadn't moved a muscle. A slight rasping sound that accompanied every breath was the only sign of life.

Severus Snape drew his wand. The Dementor, still restrained, sensed the tension in the air and paced the perimeter of its prison; the temperature dropped.

"You should be thankful, Potter. Your torment is about to end."

A vicarious memory hovered before his eyes, but he shook it away.

_Severus... please..._

An inarticulate cry rose to his lips. They would all have to live and die without an explanation; why Potter had bit the hand that had raised and trained him, done the things he had done, set the wizarding world ablaze in a deflagration that was now finally smothering just because there was too little of value left to sustain it.

Snape had just brandished his wand when awareness struck.

"Idiot," he muttered to himself.

He took a step back and pocketed his wand again lest the temptation became too strong again. Others had tried to kill Potter before, and look where it had landed them. What with him being a soulless entity now, casting the Killing Curse was now more likely than ever to have it rebounding in one's own he didn't like the idea of casting something gross such as _Reducto_; the Killing Curse was cleaner and definitive. There were a way to find out, however. He drew his wand again and aimed it at the body.

"_Crucio!_"

Everything happened at once. The limp body at his feet contorted and writhed like a sack of live tarantulas; and a shriek surged from behind Snape. He turned at once, readying his Patronus if need be, but the wards were holding.

The Dementor had gone mad. It was hurling itself at the cage, flailing his long skeletal arms and shrieking like a banshee.

In all his years researching Dark creatures Snape had never seen anything like this. Dementors were not prone to pain: a Patronus could drive them off, not hurt them. What kind of magic Potter had used to destroy all of them, bar this one, was a puzzle even for the Department of Secrets. What in the name of Merlin was going on?

"_Finite,_" he ordered.

The body at his feet and the towering creature behind the bars ceased writhing in the same exact moment.

Perhaps the Dementor was just venting out its frustration at having helpless bait just out of reach. There was a simple way to find out. Snape pointed the wand inwards.

"_Crucio,_" he said, and immediately the air was sucked out of his lungs.

He leaned aginst the wall, trying to control his own spasming body. Through the red haze of pain he could see the Dementor: staring blindly, motionless, indifferent. The wand slipped between his fingers, ending the spell, and the torture ceased.

"It can't be," he breathed. Slowly, painstakingly, he bent over and retrieved the wand. He needed to sit down.

He had always thought Albus had lied to him out of sympathy. A soul could not possibly mend itself, not after a lifetime of murder and torture.

And yet the proof of the very opposite was now in the room with him: something of Potter had survived other than his numb body. As he grasped the enormity of that fact and its ramifications, a plan quickened in his brain, undefined and hazy at first, like distant shapes in a November morning. But when the haze would clear, there would be something solid.

The library at Spinner's End was too limited for his purpose. But young Nott had salvaged a lot of Dark tomes from the family mansion before it was razed. He knew where they were hidden; he would pay a visit soon.

* * *

><p><em>19th November<em>

_Still don't know why don't cast _Diffindo_ and be done with him. I'm wasting my time. P. is beyond recovery, he's soiling the house, and even if I succeeded the Wizengamot would sentence him to the Kiss immediately._

_My only justification: I need him to explain what have I seen in the Portsieve. _

_20th November_

Sketched drawing of a severed arm.

_I'm crazy. I'm Demented._

_I cant think of anything else._

_Salazar have pity on me. I'm back at S. End now. My obsession lies hidden behind the bookshelves drooling all over himself as I browse tomes inked in poison and bound in iron restraints._

_Order firecalled today sounding frantic – did not reply. Could not come up with convincing lie._

_24th November_

_Contacted veteran Ministry officer, assigned to Azkaban pre-war. Very familiar with Dementors & rather unpleasant man to be around. Provided helpful information however: spells do exist which can be applied to terminate rogue / supernumerary Dementors. Extremely demanding and impossible to cast outside strictly controlled conditions._

_I cant do this alone._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to the respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

**Rating:** M for violence, language, mature themes.

Seize the day or die regretting the time you lost  
>It's empty and cold without you here, too many people to ache over<p>

Newborn life replacing all of us, changing this fable we live in  
>No longer needed here so where do we go?<br>Will you take a journey tonight, follow me past the walls of death

AVENGED SEVENFOLD, Seize the day

* * *

><p><em>29<em>_th_ _May_

_Memories into Pensieve turned into Pandora's box of opportunities. Cant stay away. _

_Granger. __Granger__._ _**Granger**__._ _Each time P. escaped jaws of death by mere inches – expect her to have a wand in it. Solving my own version of the Einstein's puzzle at 11, brewing Polyjuice at 12, casting Protean Charms at 16._

_Salazar must be spinning in his_ _grave__

* * *

><p>Hermione Granger shuffled her feet. The queue didn't seem to move at all; someone in the front was yelling at the employees. Only one clerk was behind the teller, a young wizard with bucked teeth that she had never seen before. Her back was killing her, but she didn't dare to sit down and lose her place in the queue. She looked for a distraction in the form of a poster, but they had not changed for years. Safety measures (<em>N° 5: Whenever possible, complete your journey before nightfall<em>), rationing informations (_Only one ounce of Floo powder can be allotted for each child between age 11 and 17 living with the applicant. Need birth certificate. Squibs need not apply_), and, worst, desperate appeals for beloved ones (_Have you seen this witch? Missing since February 3__rd_ _in the Crocksbridge area, wearing burgundy robe, 9"½ boxwood wand_).

Only seven people now…

Someone nudged her on an arm. She wheeled around and found herself facing a shrivelled witch, shrunken by old age until she was not much taller than a goblin.

"Are you queuing for Fluxweed, dear?" the witch said, speaking through sparse teeth and patting her arm with hands like sparrow feet. "You can have mine, I have no use for it these days anyway."

Disconcerted at that excess of intimacy, Hermione took a step back, while a deeper part of her brain worked out the smaller details.

Her eyes widened and she studied the wizened features. There was something odd about the old woman - the lines on her face didn't quite match her countenance. Their eyes met for a split second, and immediately the witch's crow feet deepened, her head tilted slightly back: it was fleeting, but it was enough for Hermione.

"Well, thank you," she said, "I guess I don't have any more business here, then."

She closed in, accepting the fag of dried tufts that was pressed in her hands, and recognized the faintest smell of sulphur, like overcooked cabbage, on the witch's breath.

_Polyjuice, all right._

She left the apothecary and walked out in the busy remains of Diagon Alley, stopping at times to adjust her tote bag so that the witch could keep up. They reached the Apparition area together, apparently by mere chance. There was a queue for that too, as most people couldn't afford to Floo anymore; when their turn came, they stepped into the Apparation area together, and Hermione grabbed the witch's hand at the lastest instant.

The usual vertigo of Apparation seized her. It was as though eating one of Alice's cookies and shrinking, then swelling back to normal in the time of an eyewink; like a rollercoaster ride, only without the wagon.

She came back to reality and blinked. They had Apparated in a dingy living room; the furniture was Muggle-style, but every pretence of Mugglishness had disappeared under the old tomes, weird artifacts and bits of parchment covering every available surface. It looked as if the resident had kept himself busy lately, and not with the chores. Everything but the books was dusty, shabby, or unkept.

The witch limped over to a coffee table laden with vessels and phials; she picked up a small bottle with an eye-dropper cap and a glass.

"Excuse me. I find it easier to get back to my default body when the transformation is brief," she said, the familiar no-nonsense tone clashing with her shrill voice, as she hobbled down the corridor.

A few minutes later, Severus Snape came striding back, still a bit unsteady from the transformation, wearing his familiar grey robes with the empty sleeve pinned to the shoulder. He had changed little since the last time: there were additional crow feet at the corner of his eyes, and his hair, which had gone white in the space of a single night, had receded further from his forehead and temples; needless to say, it was greasy and badly in need of a good trimming. Then again, it wasn't like wizards in their right mind would allow a charmed razor anywhere near their necks these days.

"Why the subterfuge?"

"It seemed a rather minimal precaution considering that I'm officially _dead_."

"I mean you could have contacted me via the Order, Professor."

"Drop the formalities, _miss Granger_." The familiar sneer crept up his features. "You haven't attended Hogwarts in years and my tenure ended even earlier than that. Have a seat." He waved his wand at a pile of books bundled on the nearest armchair, to make some space: the tomes flew neatly to an already overloaded bookshelf and stacked themselves over their fellows.

Hermione eyed the armchair suspiciously – it looked as decrepit as the rest of the furniture – and stood.

"Thank you, but I'd rather hear some explanations. You disappeared for weeks, leaving the Order without a clue. People were worried. There was quite the speculation about your fate."

Snape had Banished the ash from a fireplace and made a small pile of twigs, by hand, onto the andirons. A corner of his mouth creased. "What kind of speculation?"

"That you had been _killed_, or _captured_, that you had _joined_ him, that you had _killed_ him…"

"The first two hypotheses are obviously wrong, as you can see." The sneer was back with a vengeance. "Anyone who would believe the third clearly does not know either me or him." Flames erupted from the tip of his wand, engulfing the kindling. "And in the latter case, I would have alerted the Order at once."

"You're not discussing the _fifth_ one, though."

Snape did not reply. His features narrowed and he busied himself with stoking the fire, and Hermione knew.

"How did you... Where are you keeping him? And why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Why didn't you tell anyone about your Time-Turner, miss Granger?"

She parried the unexpected question. "Because it was supposed to be confidential. What did Minerva tell you?"

"_Headmaster McGonagall_ and I are not on speaking terms these days, let alone on a first-name basis," he confessed. "No, I acquired the information from a common acquaintance of ours."

This time it was her turn to frown. "Harry couldn't possibly know. And how would _you_..."

"I found out where he had been _burrowed,_" Snape said, putting all his malice into the last word. "And I discovered a Portsieve."

Hermione squeezed her eyes: they had gone slightly misty. "No, Harry couldn't possibly have known. Quit playing around and tell me what you're really after, _Severed_."

"Fair enough," Snape conceded. "It would have been... lessee... your third year. Our lamented Headmaster assigned the Defence post to the wretched werewolf, burdening me with the task of preparing Wolfsbane Potion every month; and to add insult to injury, Potter decided to spend an entire year locked up in Gryffindor Tower, neglecting lessons and assignments alike."

"Professor Lupin was competent and humane, and Harry's despair was perfectly understandable, given the situation," Hermione replied. Snape's recollection was correct, although partisan as was his usual.

The older wizard straightened up. "He came round in time to sit his final exams and passed them _cum laude_… including a Soothing Solution that had no fault whatsoever. I always suspected you had a wand in that, Granger. Did you?"

"No. Harry seldom needed anyone's help with lessons, let alone tests."

"But _you_ needed help with lessons, didn't you? Having resolved to burden yourself with two useless courses, you needed more _time_. And your Head of House, instead of trying to talk you out of your foolishness, vouched for you at the Ministry."

"So far, you're correct... more or less." Hermione nodded again. "But on the very first day, Harry… well, you know."

"I remember Potter's tantrum well, as I had to help pick up in the aftermath. It's not every day outbursts of uncontrolled magic occur in wizards of school-age; a lot of precious instruments were damaged beyond Reparation. How did he even find out, I wonder?"

"Draco Malfoy, taunting Harry as usual, this time about how he had missed seeing the murderer of his parents being Kissed," Hermione revealed. "Professor Dumbledore was so worried about Harry that he asked Ron and me to keep an eye on him in case he did anything… drastic. Ron himself was under the weather – he felt guilty for not having recognized that his rat had been an Animagus in disguise. So I dropped the extra subjects and the Time-Turned was restored to the Ministry."

"So you never time-travelled with Potter?"

"And neither alone."

"And you never brewed Polyjuice Potion in a girls' toilet, either?"

Hermione's blank stare was an answer enough. Snape shook his head.

"Nay, Granger, it doesn't make sense to me as well... not yet. If you would..."

She raised a hand. "That's enough, now it's time for you to answer some questions. You are hiding Harry, aren't you?. And _why_?"

"I will reply to that question and to many others, Miss Granger, in return for a single answer."

Hermione frowned. "Spill it."

"Answer sincerely," said the one-armed man, leaning forward. "To what lengths are you prepared to go to gaze at the abyss of Potter's folly?"

_6__th_ _June_

_Granger_ _agreed to help - although "with reserve". As if a Gryff_ _had ever a mind for_ _second thoughts _Scratched out:_(or first for that matter)._

_Tasked her with examining the memory vials, under oath of secrecy: hopefully her greater familiarity with P. will bring additional clues. Hard to_ _believe such knowledge could be attained in a_ _single generation. Shallow yes, inelegant but thorough, solid, w/ eagerness to improve._

Scratched out: _(Her knowledge of Light Arts_ _might actually be sup_)_

_A pity V. is not around to suffer this._


End file.
